Legacy
by KarouYamisaki
Summary: For HGRHfan35 "He looked back at the old motorcycle, over the years the chrome had rusted over, leather seat cracked, and the paint faded. But the mystic beauty of the machine was that it was used as a tool for years until the owner had left it parked where it was. It was tied to the ground with vines that had small white flowers growing along the stems" Rose 'verse.


For HGRHfan35 who requested 'Daryl talking to Carol about how well Rose has grown up without him talking like a crazy person' I couldn't write the prompt in the way she probably wanted it, but I translated it with another prompt that was placed on tumblr about a great-grandchild of Carol and Daryl and I was writing a one-shot about that so...they fused together.

I own nothing but I should be getting to bed cause I work at Eight A.M and it's like...1 in the morning.

**Legacy**

Normally he wouldn't had strayed this far without his brother or parents around but they were too busy to pay attention as he slipped out the back door and headed towards the woods.

He looked back at the old motorcycle, over the years the chrome had rusted over, leather seat cracked, and the paint faded. But the mystic beauty of the machine was that it was used as a tool for years until the owner had left it parked where it was. It was tied to the ground with vines that had small white flowers growing along the stems. He remembered vaguely they were called 'Cherokee Roses' and a story his grandmother had told him about grieving mothers, lost children, and love everlasting.

He turned to see his grams making her way towards him, feathers standing out starkly in her long silver hair making her look like one of the 'Indians' that where in his schoolbooks. He loved her cause she never failed to notice he was coming, she could be abrasive if she wanted to be or comforting when you needed her. In which having an older brother like Merle you needed someone to smack him with a spoon, or in one case throw a knife with enough accuracy to land between his older brothers legs and pin the crotch of his pants to the door frame as he tried to run from the woman.

"What are ya' doing out here boy?" she asked, hands on the hips like every scolding mother and grandmother in ages past.

"The forest called to me, and lead me here." he said like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Of course they did, _the forest called to all with Dixon blood_, something her husband used to remark whenever someone in the village commented on her absence from the home to go hunt in the woods. She could also spy the look of pleading in the pair of young blue eyes directed at her, and she caved in to them.

She smiled "Come on Daryl, you'll have ta spend the night with me, in the mornin' I'll take you home."

"Okay Gramma Rosie!" He started to run towards the home her husband, father in law, and father had years ago as a wedding present. Her husband had gone before her years ago, they'd been out picking strawberries with their oldest son, Daryls father, when he had decided to sleep against a tree. He'd died in his sleep and she'd taken care of him the same way she'd taken care of her father, and he in turn her mother.

She stroked the handlebar fondly, remembering clutching onto her fathers vest as they tore 'crossed country when she was young she could smell the leather, sweat, and strangely the mixture of cloves and vanilla. That was until they had run out of gas to propel the metal machines forwards he'd parked it in her yard against the stump they used to gut their kills on, he'd grown arthritic in his old age as years of abuse to his body finally hit him. His crossbows hung over her mantle, waiting for a new owner to claim them and use them as the tools they were meant to be. He'd lived out his final years watching his grand kids tear about, sometimes catching him muttering something to the bush of Cherokee Roses she'd transplanted next to the old Triumph.

She teared up a bit, remembering a soft voice in her youth telling her not to fear death for your loved ones would always be watching over you.

Sometimes she swore she could see her husband tinkering with something in the kitchen, trying to get some piece of the old world to work. Whenever she visited her daughter she could hear the banter between her in-laws. The others in the group from Georgia in the faces of their offspring and the places they'd built.

At night the distant lullabies of a mother singing.

And sometimes, when she was alone in the woods she could swear she heard her father speaking to her telling her to move silently and watch her back, for who knew what else could be in those woods with her years after she'd seen any large group of the undead come after them. They'd learned how to take care of their own, surviving til they could _live._

"Com'mon Gramma Rosie!" her grandson yelled from the porch, bringing her out of her revelry. She smirked willing her old bones to leave the grave marker and head towards the house yelling.

"I'ma commin' ya little rascal, good lord didn't nobody tell ya the meaning of _Zen?_"

_Fin_


End file.
